


Events To Be Served Cold

by Am-Chau (Vacillating)



Category: West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vacillating/pseuds/Am-Chau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some revenge is entirely silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Events To Be Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-writing discussion was extensively conducted with sirenumscopuli, and beta reading was done thoroughly by anomilygrace. Thanks for your help, both of you.

Events To Be Served Cold  
Written by Am-Chau Yarkona for the [Toby Ficathon](http://www.livejournal.com/users/raedbard/159410.html).  
Recipient: 38gnihsurc  
Challenge: "Character: CJ or Abbey. Requirements: Good scotch, and a cigar."  
Pairing: Toby/Abbey (and Jed/Abbey)  
Rating: R (sexual situation)  
Author's Notes: Pre-writing discussion was extensively conducted with sirenumscopuli, and beta reading was done thoroughly by anomilygrace. Thanks for your help, both of you.

 

Watching carefully can tell you everything.

Toby sees his wife watching him sometimes, annoyed or wanting or frustrated with him, but Andy doesn't know how to watch properly: she imposes her own agenda on the subject of her observation, and it colours what she sees.

Toby, on the other hand, prides himself on being an impartial observer.

If he wasn't, he might let his friendship with and admiration for Jed Bartlet colour his view of Abigail Bartlet; he might decide that the lines around her eyes are age or the desire to get the drink the barman is mixing for her down her throat or even plain tiredness. They have, after all, been campaigning all day, and watching a man make a speech can be worse than making it yourself if you want desperately enough for him to succeed. But Toby does not let himself reshape the world in this way, and he knows from the lines around Abbey's eyes that she had Jed have quarrelled again.

For all Toby knows, they have quarrelled because Abbey wanted Sunday off, but Governor Bartlet—at Toby's suggestion—has pressed for a personal appearance this Sunday. For all Toby knows, he is the cause; but if this is the case, Abbey does not mention it when he leans beside her at the bar, requests another glass of the same good scotch, and says, too casually, "Tired, Abbey?"

Abbey nods, briskly, and knocks the remainder of her drink back in a single swallow.

"The governor was persuasive today," Toby says, probing gently for the cause of the quarrel by bringing up the man's name.

"Jed had the crowd in the palm of his hand," Abbey agrees.

"And did you like the speech?" Toby asks. He tries to make it sound as if he is asking about the quality of his speechwriting rather than Abbey's reactions.

"The speech was good," Abbey says, pauses, and then adds, "Perhaps I've heard the stump speech too often." She puts her glass down and turns towards the door.

"Leaving already?" Toby asks, mildly.

 

Half an hour later, Abbey has laid her cards on the table, a neat arrangement ready and waiting for Toby's scrutiny. She had given him every detail of the quarrel and of her angry reaction. She has mentioned her desire for revenge of sorts: something secret, to be treasured in her heart, and not mentioned to him until she's truly righteously angry, when it will be softened with time but sharpened with lies of omission.

They both drink. Not heavily, exactly, but to the point where the usual steel barriers of society and vows have thinned to cobweb, strong but easy to break when you blunder into them.

Toby listens, and watches, and takes in every word.

When he has the full picture, he says, "I understand why you want that."

He carefully does not say that he would want revenge. He does not say that he will help her to construct it. He says he understands, however, and Abbey reads both of those in his innocuous statement.

Toby nods and stubs out his cigar.

When she has finished her last drink, Abbey stands. She is unsteady. Her hand rests on Toby's shoulder for support.

"I'll walk you up to your room," he offers. Abbey smiles up at him.

 

Abbey is not the only one unsteady on her feet. They lean heavily on each other as they make their way up the final flight of stairs, and when they reach Toby's door—he does not remember this being the decision, but Abbey seems to have taken over the steering—Abbey has to grope in the back pocket of his trousers to find the key he can't reach because his left arm is wrapped around her waist.

For a moment, he thinks of Andy. Beautiful, strong, clever Andy, who watches him when she thinks he won't notice and can make him twitch with a single touch.

Andy is far away, though, pursuing her own political career while Toby writes for the Bartlet campaign, and there's another beautiful woman right here with him, now. Her name even begins with A.

"Come in," Toby says, formally, with a lordly wave of his hand to indicate the far from grand interior of the budget hotel room.

Abbey steps inside. The room is graced by her presence, not least because when she is there, Toby has something more interesting to look at than the pressed wood furniture.

"You're a little drunk," she says, critically. This from a medical school graduate, so Toby is willing to accept that she understands the condition from both sides.

"My apologies," Toby says. Drink seems to have made him formal.

He takes a seat on the bed and stoops to undo his shoelaces—not appropriate in company but Abbey knows him so well, she won't mind—and nearly topples off. Abbey kneels on the floor before him, supporting him a little, and she is also undoing his shoelaces.

When she begins to unbutton his shirt as well, Toby remembers that there are rules to this game. When he demands equality, he tells her, he gets it: and on this occasion, he does indeed get equal nudity from her.

 

It is just dawn when Abbey leaves.

Dawn, that is, by sun, and not morning by the body's rhythm. Neither of them have slept.

Toby manages to see her to the door. He does not kiss her goodnight.

"See you later today," Abbey says quietly. She nearly adds, 'let's not talk about this', but the tattered remains of their rapport reassure her that Toby will be suitably tactful.

Nodding, Toby wraps the memory in silk and tries to tuck it as far from his waking mind as possible. It would only serve as a distraction when he steps back onto the campaign trail, mere hours from now.

 

Next time Abbey is upset with Jed, she does not even need to speak to Toby. She just glances at him across the room, and—remembering that her revenge is ready, to be unleashed with a single word—she decides that this time, the quarrel is not bad enough to deserve that.


End file.
